Sweet as Ethanol
by Tofania
Summary: Dersecest fluff/angst. Dave comes to terms with his feelings for Rose and both combat the enticement of alcohol.


"Daaave."

"Hm."

"Rebember that apple jushe you wanted me to achelmize?"

You look up.

Rose was half lying on the table. Her eyes were lilted, her head propped up on her elbow. You notice how embarrassingly pink her cheeks are.

"Weeelll..." She yawned and her eyes teared up, orbs glistening violet. "I couln't get it exshactly right, but I may have shucceeded in making an altrenative."

"Holy shit. Really?" You sit up, attempting to suppress your excitement. Or maybe you shouldn't suppress it. Perhaps being overly excited over a fruit-based beverage is ironic, and therefore cool. But it could also be mistaken for genuity and considered lame. Except for the fact that you actually are genuinely excited. About...well, about apple juice.

You decide to play it cool.

"Wait. Hold the fuck up. What do you mean altrena-alternative?" You squint at Rose through your shades suspiciously. "You're not going to make me some whack faux beverage and slap the holy name of AJ on it, are you?" You glance at her again and see a an alarming lack of violet. What? Are her...are her eyes closed?

"Rose?" You hear light snoring. "Augh. Dammit, Lalonde."

You move over to her side of the table, preparing to prod her in the arm. But instead, you find yourself watching her instead. Just looking. The way her bangs fall in front of her eyes and how different she looks with rosy cheeks instead of pallor mortis. You tilt your head. There was a peaceful look on her face, and the way her chest slowly rose and fell was strangely calming.

She's always been very pretty, you think. An unexpected thought, but true. Pretty in a very unconventional way.

You sigh. This is terrible. Not the possible alchemization of some apple juice, of course, but...Rose.

"You really need to stop this shit, you know," you mutter to her as she sleeps. "It's bad for you."

You're worried about her. Begrudgingly, rightfully, definitely understandably, worried, although, you suppose, not so much about the drinking itself as why she's doing it. She had always renounced drinking, always rejected her mother's affection as passive-aggressive mind games because of the drinking, and now it was like she didn't even care about any of that anymore. As if she was turning into her mother. Maybe she was even doing it on purpose. You didn't know. You don't think you'll ever know. You would never be able to figure it out, you didn't have the mind of Rose Lalonde, and to be quite honest, you didn't think you would want to. Who knew what kind of fucked up, Machiavellian shit went on in that noggin. You'd probably make a hell of alot better psychologist though, if you did. Then maybe you could figure this shit out. Help her. Do something, anything, you guess.

"I wish..." you bite your lip. You get the feeling that you should shut up, and stop trying to strike a one-sided conversation with a girl who's obviously past the point of listening. "I wish you'd tell me what's up. Why you're doing this. Then maybe I could stop you from hurting yourself." These words gotta go somewhere, though, you think. Unconscious ears are a good enough place. "Maybe then I could stop being such a shitty excuse for a friend."

You sit on the stool next to her. You debate waking her up and putting her to bed somewhere, but you're afraid she'd refuse and just go right back to drinking. Of course, then that would give you the chance to fully inquire about the possible existence of apple juice in the vicinity. Or "altrenative for apple juice", as she so elegantly put. Whatever. You're not going to do that. It would be a bad idea. The last thing she needed now would be an opportunity to imbibe more weirdass alchemy booze. You decide to just get her a pillow and a blanket and let her sleep off the alcohol on the table. Because what she really needed, and what you really needed, was for her to sober the fuck up.

"Fine. Fuck. Whatever. You know, I really shouldn't be helping you. But I will anyway, because I'm just that fucking fantastic." You grit your teeth. "I hope my voice is somehow subconsciously penetrating your fucked up labyrinthine of a mind and echoing in your shitty dreams or whatever." You stand there for a few moments, looking at her. The silence makes you feel very uncomfortable. "Fuck, just..." Another sigh. You've been sighing a lot lately, you notice grimly. "Sorry. I know you can't hear me right now, so I guess it doesn't matter, but I'm still being a massive asshole. Which is embarrassingly uncool. So...fuck, I'm sorry." You rub your eyes and listen to her breathing for a couple seconds. "I just. Fuck, I care about you too much. I have to be an asshole, I guess. It just hurts when you fuck things up for yourself this. Shit. I wish you would just..." Another long pause. "Shit." You sigh once more before leaving to get the bedding supplies.

You return a few minutes later and are about to drape the blanket over her shoulders when you notice the awkward position she's in. "Oh, for fuck's sake," you mutter. Her torso is sprawled all over the table, arms out and face planted firmly in the wood, but her ass is still on the stool, about thirty seconds from falling off.

"Great. Yep." You roll your eyes. "That's me, Dave Strider, designated booze babysitter. Because who the fuck else is going to do this for you."

You put down the bedding items and hesitantly step toward Rose. You've realised by now that your concerns about waking her up are clearly unfounded, considering that the only thing that could possibly wake her up from this hell of a drunken stupor would be the Vast Glub itself. Whatever the fuck that is.

You eye her for a second, becoming increasingly aware of the presence of her breasts and hips. God fucking dammit. You are not cut out for this at all. "Stop being such a pussy," you growl at yourself.

Her snoring halts when you grab her around the waist and lift her up.

"Damn." She's heavier than you thought. Your muscles are far from straining, though. Practicing constantly with swords and getting your ass systematically kicked on a daily basis does wonders for strength training.

You look down at her face. It was completely still. No signs of awakening, apparently. You try to play it cool, but your hands are on her curves, and you feel your face beginning to grow hot. "God fucking dammit, Strider. Pull yourself together," you mutter under your breath. You're just helping a friend out. Right? But in the back of your conscience is a thorn. This would look wrong to someone who didn't know what was going on. But it's not that. No matter how much you wish it could be, it's not like that. That wouldn't be right. At all.

You grunt and clumsily lift her body onto the table. You're not very good at this, you realise. Her arm ends up squashed beneath her ass. You mutter curses and bite your lip during the inevitable ass grope required to remove the arm from beneath her. You flip her onto her back and lay her limbs by her side. "I am going to give you so much shit for this when you wake up, Lalonde, I fucking swear to god," you grumble. Then she begins to snore again, but you notice her hair is in her face. You suppress the urge to laugh as she sniffs and strands of it get stuck to her lipstick. Keep it cool, man. But you inevitably fail to, and end up giggling.

"Man. Sometimes you can be so cute, you know. When you're not being hella fucking irritating or completely terrifying." You lean over and smooth her hair back, revealing her face again. Her flushed cheeks were beginning to grow pale, contrasting her coal lips and blonde hair. "Fuck, you're beautiful," you mumble. She smiles.

You freeze.

There is an excruciatingly long moment of silence.

You stand stock still. Eyes closed. Teeth grit together in such a way that it would likely take a pair of high-quality pliers to pry that shit apart.

Rose's eyes are open and the smile has turned into the most infuriating little smirk you have ever seen in your life.

"How...long...have...you...been...awake." You struggle between each word and end up phrasing it not so much as a question but as a statement of defeat.

"The question, Strider," she whispered, grinning, "is not how long I've been awake, but if I ever was in the first place." She winks at you. She actually fucking winks at you.

"Fuck you," you respond cooly, but beneath your shades your eyes are wide open and you don't need a fucking mirror to guess how red you're beginning to turn. You reflexively grab your collar and pull it, feeling very, very hot.

She laughs. "It's alright, Dave. There's no need to be embarrassed." She grabs the blanket and pulls it over herself. You can tell she's still a little drunk, but her words were clearer and her speech more coherent. You guess that if she hadn't been pretending to be intoxicated, she had at least been exaggerating it from the very beginning.

Fucking Machiavellian little shit.

She lies there with her eyes open, staring at you for a few moments. "Thank you," she says, finally.

Before you can ask for what, she scoots over and gestures you to come lie next to her. You hesitate, but like all unfathomably inevitable decisions, you end up doing it anyway.

You have to share the pillow with her. It's much too small and your face in front of hers, noses almost touching. You wonder if she can see your eyes through your shades this close. Usually you felt safe behind them, but now they felt like an obstruction. Like they were in the way of something important.

Of course the thought crosses your mind to get another pillow, but you don't even bother entertaining it. You don't want to get up.

And besides. Her eyes are a damn nice view.

It's long, long time before they close.


End file.
